“I left Rosario, but Rosario hasn’t left me…
It is possible to love two places with the same intensity,”

…says Camila Hassan, the fictional character in Yamile Saied Méndez’s “Furia,” a novel that had me laughing, sighing and crying over the course of the two days it took me to devour it. In the story, wild-hearted yet deeply rooted Camila (whose story takes place in Rosario, Argentina) feels this notion deeply – because so, too, does Yamile.

Born in Argentina and raised in the U.S., the author can describe the beauty and tension of that duality: South and North, English and Spanish, Warm and Cold, Home…and Home. And she does so stunningly, effortlessly weaving Spanish (most notably, Argentinian lunfardo) into the dialogue and subtly threading anecdotes and Argentinian everyday-ness to paint a rich narrative that lets fellow Argentines in on the secret (and the nostalgia) without alienating the non-Argentine reader (though I’d certainly encourage you to look up the references).

From the tale of La Difunta Correa, the delight of a good pastafrola and mentions of star footballers, to Argentina’s sociopolitical nuances, beloved traditions and quirks that involve the likes of empacho, mal de ojo and pata de cabra , “Furia” took me on a journey that felt less like fiction and more like a retreat into familiar territory, providing me with a literary taste of home I couldn’t savor slowly enough.

Much like Camila (and Yamile), I too connect with this duality: this sense of two homes, one always tugging at my heartstrings just a little bit differently, whispering to me a little more familiarly. When people ask me where I’m from, I always (always) say Buenos Aires. That seems to stump people. Over the years, I’ve had several respond, “Okay, but like where are you actually from?” Buenos Aires. There is no other place where I or my story begin, period. Perhaps it’s difficult to understand how I could claim a city I left so long ago, as a child nonetheless, but unless you too have grown up tethered to a home that’s undefined by physical space, you will never understand. To be raised in multicultural Miami Beach by two ardently home-centric, non-English-speaking parents with no other family around meant doing everything possible to stay connected to a home 4,400+ miles away – by way of traditions, by way of regular snail mail and weekly phone calls, by stories told and retold, by browsing photo albums much like they were novels, by savoring familiar flavors… by being reminded every day that we belonged, both here and there (though oftentimes, especially for my parents, that was easier said than society would allow).

My bihemispheric upbringing ensured that I maintain a close relationship with my dozens of beautiful cousins, aunts and uncles; have a fairly decent pulse on Argentina’s current state of affairs; and know the starting players of the Seleccion Nacional – though it failed at bringing me up to speed on any U.S. culture from the ‘80s and ‘90s (sorry guys, unless it’s Full House, I probably didn’t watch it), and that also goes for country music and sweet tea, both of which I was introduced to in college. Today, I can enthusiastically watch both The Super Bowl and The World Cup, but you’ll always find me rooting the loudest when the albiceleste is on the pitch. I can devour hot wings and ribs but will always choose asado over barbecue. I can speak English mostly without an accent but will never not pronounce Spanish words properly (and that goes for my name too; please don’t call me Valerie).

So, where does the Argentina in me end? Where does the U.S. in me begin? How could either ever, when so many versions of myself have stood in both places? The U.S. groomed my wings, but Argentina made sure I’d always find my way home. And it’s why like Camila (and Yamile), I can and do love two places with the same intensity. If home is, as The New York Times recently described:

“…a meptahor for ease and comfort. When we feel at home in the world, we wear existence like a comfortable sweater; we belong."

Then mine is split across hemispheres. Mine exists in two places. Mine is both singular and plural. I love each and both the same. 🤍

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I previously wrote about my connection to Buenos Aires for Darling magazine in 2017. You can read more about “Furia,” Reese’s Book Club September 2020 pick here, and purchase a copy from an independent bookseller here. Happy reading!